


Closer

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin still isn’t silent, still isn’t conquered. (2k)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

> I finally wrote the D/S fic from last time! I like this one—it’s filthy filthy, the kind I like. I think Merlin could’ve stood being a bit more active, perhaps, but on the whole? I’m satisfied. WAIT WHAT I am satisfied with something I wrote? Yeah. Yeah, I _am_. And it feels brilliant. (And so fucking filthy omg ~~iloveitsfm~~ I need time in my bunk now bye. Oh, and title is shamelessly stolen from NIN’s ‘Closer’ because I suck at titles and the song was on repeat while I wrote this.)

Arthur can’t do much but focus on the muscles in his thighs—tighten, and _clench_. They bunch up a little at the amount of concentrated strength, harden instantly to withstand the sheer pressure of Merlin’s assault. Because that’s what it is, Arthur thinks, an assault, his wild eyes staring at Merlin before him, stretched out like a praying man on his knees, the perfect canvas of sin—taking the Gods’ names into his filthy mouth, blabbing profanities and praisings alike, all for Arthur as he shoves himself back (and back and back and back) onto Arthur’s dick ferociously, thin arms trembling with the effort to keep his weight upright, his fingers clenched in the sheet, white-knuckled.

Merlin fucks himself like that, furious fast and infernal hot—letting Arthur’s length burn his hole open, forcing his tight ( _tight_ ) muscles apart to accommodate and give in and yield to Arthur, the sheath to his sword, protecting and loving and consuming until there is nothing left but the tightening walls of black hot suffocation, so sweet at the edges of Arthur’s perception. Arthur’s legs are tense, the cheeks of Merlin’s arse smacking obscenely against the hardened flesh of his upper thighs with each drive back, and Arthur grits his teeth against the jarring motions, so forceful and fierce he’s sure if he were to lose his concentration Merlin’d fuck him into submission. And those stick legs of his don’t look like much, do they, traitorous little bastards that they are—but Merlin’s wild carnal desire, his intense seeking for more, more, more of that sweet-sharp pleasure inside that resembles the force of a black hole, all-consuming and insane, it would make Arthur’s legs buckle if he let it, would buckle under the incredible pressure until they’d give way beneath him and he’d sit sprawled on his arse, and Merlin would just follow him mindlessly like he’d be drawn in by magnetic attraction, Arthur the centre—he’d crawl back on his knees until Arthur’s dick would slide in between the cheeks of his arse and get caught on his hole, until it’d feed itself into his hole again, slide inside and stuff him full, and he’d be crude with it, give no fuck for propriety as he’d keep working his hips back (and back and back and back), work Arthur into himself so Arthur could never leave, until he’d be sore and spent and even then Merlin’d still not have enough, and he’d just keep sitting in Arthur’s lap waiting for his dick to obey Merlin’s every whim, cradling his softened length in his constricting little hole until Arthur’d be hurting from over-stimulation and Merlin’s little incoherent noises would make him hard a second third fourth time against his will—and Merlin’d fuck himself stupid and so sore he wouldn’t be able to walk the next two days, would be useless with his fucked-out hole and Arthur’s come so deep inside him, and Arthur’d catch Merlin rubbing his belly in the memory of the ache of him, and he wouldn’t stop—wouldn’t stop, if it weren’t for Arthur he _wouldn’t fucking stop_ , wouldn’t care, needy and clinging and so suffocatingly loving that Arthur knows he’d fill up every single empty space inside of Merlin until Merlin’d feel his dick up his throat, huge and invasive and choking, leaving him gasping and breathless with no taste and thought and emotion but _Arthur_ …

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, high-pitched, transforming Arthur’s name into something obscene and dark from the need he infuses each letter with. “Arthur, Arthur,” he is chanting, Arthur’s name a benediction. Arthur drags his eyes over Merlin’s curled toes, the taut muscles of his calves, the sparse black hair covering his legs, leading sinuously upwards to his arse, plump and pert and perfect, red with Arthur’s hand prints all over. “Please, Arthur, _please_ ,” Merlin begins begging, and Arthur’s brain pretty much short-curcuits at that point, at the thick _keening_ in Merlin’s voice, reedy and hoarse, rough from the litanies of filth that have spilled over his lips. Arthur understand why he begs—Merlin’s legs are shaking badly, trembling from exertion and use, much like his arms. He looks like he’s about to keel over, limbs shaky and muscles soft, and it’s a wonder he’s managed to fuck himself on Arthur’s dick this rigorously for quite some time now. 

It roars through Arthur then, at the last broken ‘please’ from Merlin’s lips—the thought _mine_ , thundering alongside his pulse in a rapid staccato, eradicating his senses in a single ruthless strike. _Mine mine mine_ a voice in Arthur’s head is chanting, obsessively, and Arthur jerks himself out of the passive role of giving and moves onto taking, taking what’s his. His body is moving with it, large hands closing around the gorgeous curves of Merlin’s protruding hipbones in a possessive, tight grip that will leave bruises, that will mark him, and maybe it’s not as grotesque as a dog pissing at a tree to mark his territory but it’s more animalistic, in a way, the single-minded direction of Arthur’s thoughts, the obliterating need to press through Merlin’s skin and slide into it, make himself at home there, make one out of two, because that’s what they are. He’s Merlin’s and Merlin’s his, his his his for the taking, and Arthur’s hands squeeze Merlin’s hips warningly but Merlin doesn’t listen, tries to keep moving to get Arthur back to that spot. It makes Arthur growl and he snaps forward, using his body weight to his advantage—so heavy and bulky in comparison to Merlin’s long, svelte everything—to unfold Merlin slowly with the press forward of his chest against Merlin’s back. He grips Merlin’s hands and forcefully pushes them away from his body until they’re spread unmoving on the sides of his face, then does the same with his legs and blankets Merlin’s entire body with his own until he’s lying pressed flat against the mattress with his limbs sprawled away from him, helpless and unmoving. Arthur sits in the cradle of Merlin’s legs and watches the tremor of his limbs, mesmerised, for some seconds, before Merlin makes a little noise—impatient—and tries thrusting back against him again.

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur growls and brings his hand down forcefully onto Merlin’s left arse cheek, his palm smacking hard against the abused skin. The noise of Merlin’s fingernails dragging over the sheet is an ugly one and makes Arthur grimace, and he stretches himself out along Merlin’s back, finds Merlin’s hands with his own, encircling those bird bone thin wrists in a cramped grip, pressing them down against the mattress, holding them there. Arthur doesn’t waste time and simply gives Merlin what he’s asking for—he rocks forward into him without warning, rough and short without much finesse, friction the only thing on his mind, friction and filling Merlin up up up until he’d be dripping from him, out his hole and down his thighs.

His back is coal-hot against Arthur’s front, sweaty and feverish, and he just can’t hold still—jerks his hands in the hold of Arthur’s and wriggles around like an eel, makes abortive little movements with his pelvis, tries to move his arse back against Arthur still, still, still, as if Arthur’s just not enough—not hard enough, not fast enough, not _good_ enough. It makes something inside Arthur’s stomach tug sharply and he raises himself up on one hand, disregards Merlin’s painful grunt, and the heat curses through him, blindly and wildly, without direction—he is enough, he is enough entirely, and he hisses it against Merlin’s ear as he arches his back over Merlin in a curve, _there is nothing else you need, just this, my dick inside you nailing you good and proper like you need it, little cockslut that you are, begging to be fucked hard until you can feel my dick in your throat because you’re gagging for it, aren’t you_ , and Merlin surprises him with a hidden show of strength as he manages to wrench one of his hands free. It almost throws Arthur off the rhythm but he catches himself quickly with his palm on the sheet and watches as Merlin shakes his head beneath him, tries to evade his voice by his ear, and Arthur doesn’t like that, doesn’t like that at all, so he lets his weight rest on his elbow and flattens himself against Merlin’s back again, making him immobile, leaning forward and dragging his arm up until his palm finds the hot skin of Merlin’s throat. He grips him there, unforgiving, Merlin’s Adam’s apple crushing against the ball of his hand, his fingers curled tight and painfully against Merlin’s jawbone, digging in and dragging his face back, against Arthur’s shoulder, close to his mouth so he has to listen.

“You’re going to come like this,” Arthur says roughly, his words nearly drowned in Merlin’s wheezing and panting, hot and wet. “Just—” Arthur shoves forward roughly with his hips “from this—” his weight crushing Merlin against the mattress, riding him ruthlessly.

Merlin starts sobbing, then, hot tears burning Arthur’s fingertips, desperate noises pulled from his throat but he still isn’t silent, still isn’t conquered. He grips his own hair with his free hand and pulls at it, like he tries to find a way out from the overwhelming physicalness of the moment, either not enough or too much or both, fists it and tears and tears at it and stutters, in a broken cry, “Fill me up fill me up, it’s so empty, so empty—Arthur—” a sob “—I—Gods, Gods please, give it to me, fuck me _fill_ me—”

When he swallows it presses against Arthur’s palm, and it must hurt, must be painful, the way Arthur’s holding him everywhere so tightly, all of his weight bearing Merlin down, riding him in hard, vicious thrusts that shove him forward into the mattress again, again, again. Merlin’s at his mercy, utterly at his mercy. He’s got all of Arthur, all of Arthur inside him balls-deep and so intimate, and it still isn’t enough, because Merlin’s got to have all of him, every single drop—

“Arthur c’mon c’mon please,” he’s still begging, voice hoarse and broken, quiet and so close, “fill me, I want it I need it fuck me fill me, want you in my throat—” 

It’s by far not the dirtiest Merlin’s said this night but somehow it’s what undoes Arthur—the idea of Merlin empty and restless and waiting for his cock to fill up all the places inside him that are meaningless without him, giving Merlin his seed because it’s his, because it was made for him. Arthur’s balls tighten up painfully and jerk it out inside Merlin’s guts, and he shudders through it, through the idea of filling Merlin up forever so he’ll take Arthur with him wherever he goes, because they’re not two they’re one, and Arthur’s spilling and spilling and spilling every single drop he has inside Merlin as he’s falling forward, arms jelly and skin burning from the intensity.

It’s what makes Merlin crack at last, when he’s got all of Arthur now. Arthur’s hand falls away from Merlin’s throat and Merlin bites into his own fingers, pushes his face into the pillow and keens Arthur’s praise into the warm space there where it’s wet and hot with his saliva. Still moving underneath Arthur, he pushes his trembling lower body back to make Arthur’s dick move inside him as Arthur’s coming, and when it runs down his thighs—Arthur feels it trickle out, hot and burning against his over-sensitised balls, around his softening length—a full-body cramp shocks through him, a single violent shudder seizing him—and the thought in Arthur’s head _mine mine mine_ turns to something else as he hears Merlin’s voice rasp out “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” and turns to _yours yours yours_.


End file.
